"That makes two of us," says Iman, casting a seriously dubious glance at Daniel. The hell kind of question is that? She'd almost think it was rude if she hadn't already clocked Daniel as hopelessly well-intentioned, and if hadn't been uttered like it was a really prevalent question. But let's just sidestep casually away from that, shall we?

"Maybe not quite that drunk," she says, eyeing the bottle. "I'm gonna need some brain cells left. But holy shit, let me tell you guys." She finishes off her cocktail and slides it to the bartender. "This was not where I meant to be today. I mean granted, I think we can all say the same thing, right? But I mean I had a fucking plan. It involved coming here and then going home. Half the plan goes ass up and I'm left here looking like a fucking idiot. Which, I'll have you know, I am not. Thanks." This last word to the bartender, who has insightfully bequeathed her a new vodka tonic, which she's already sipping like a goddamn boss. "Can I get a whiskey, too? Daniel, what are you having?"

She glances over at Drunky McGee. "Still didn't get your name, there, Snoozy. How long you been rift-side?"

This, as far as Iman can tell, is going great.